


A Drop in the Ocean

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Caring, Epilepsy, Gen, Holmes Brothers, How it would have gone if BBC Sherlock was written by me for my NWBD series!, Hurt/Comfort, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Seizure, T/C Seizure, The Woman - Freeform, epileptic, fraternal love, fraternal relationship, h/c, tonic clonic, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>NOTE: Within the 'Not Waving But Drowning' 'verse, in which I shamelessly alter the actual episode plot to suit my needs! </b>
</p><p>Mycroft tensed his shoulders. "Am I to be concerned?" At Mycroft's words, Sherlock lowered his hands, leaving his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, and clasped his fingers together in front of his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drop in the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/gifts).



> Absolutely gifted to the wonderful Boton, who I know likes "this sort of thing".  
> Sorry for posting a shit tonne of crappy one-shots and nothing for NMH - I'm procrastinating.

"...Had a bit of help. Jim Moriarty sends his love," Irene turned her head from Sherlock back to Mycroft. 

Mycroft sighed through his nose, not sure who deserved his attention the most - his brother, massaging his temples in the fireside chair, or the brazen woman before him at the table who had him, and indeed England, by the proverbial scrotal sac. Sure, they had had words and yes, the world was going to implode if he wasn't prepared to give Irene what she wanted, but still he was aware of how quiet his brother was, and he really didn't like that he appeared to have a headache. Idiopathic and unrelated or not, Sherlock with a headache was usually an indicator of worse events to come. "Yes, he's been in touch," Mycroft finally responded. "Seems desperate for my attention. Which, I'm sure can be arranged." 

Irene's brows rose. "Thank _God_ for the Consulting Criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys," She arched her back slightly. "Do you know what he calls you?" 

"Something sparklingly distasteful, I shouldn't wonder," Mycroft silenced her, getting to his feet. "Sherlock?" 

Sherlock hummed, his eyes narrow and focused on the flickering fire, "Hmm..." 

Mycroft tensed his shoulders. "Am I to be concerned?" At Mycroft's words, Sherlock lowered his hands, leaving his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, and clasped his fingers together in front of his chest. 

"He didn't even ask for anything," Irene spoke up as the crackle of the fire became the only noise in the large room. "I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now _that's_ my kind of man." Her cheek quirked as she smiled and Mycroft gazed at her. 

"Hmm," Mycroft pushed his hands into his pockets and turned his body, focusing his eyes on her sharply. "And here you are; the dominatrix who brought the world to its knees." He gave the woman a mocking half-curtsy. "Nicely played." He turned away again with a sigh, glancing across at Sherlock as he caught him change his position out of the corner of his eye. Irene got to her feet, her expression one of clear adulation. She'd won! 

"No," Sherlock mumbled, blinking his eyes slowly. 

Mycroft focused on Sherlock solely and Irene frowned in the younger Holmes' direction. "I'm sorry?" She questioned. 

Sherlock looked around the chair, "I said no. Very, _very_ close, but no." He braced his hands on the arms of the chair and rose to his feet. "You got carried away..." 

Mycroft's brow twitched down slightly. "Sherlock...," He said softly, too softly, and Irene turned her head around to him before looking back at Sherlock as he took a step toward her, away from the fireplace. 

"The game...w-was...too elaborate," Sherlock's words smudged as he wavered on another step. "You were...enjoying yourself...too much." 

"There's no such thing as too much," Irene laughed a little in her throat, watching him walk toward her with slow, deliberate steps. He looked and sounded intoxicated, but she was certain that there had been no drugs this time. But, boy, did he wobble on his long legs. Like a newly born foal, he seemed to lack all coordination in his lower limbs.

Mycroft took a step towards his brother and hesitated about stepping in. Once again, his moral dilemma compass seemed unsure where to level itself. "Sherlock, sit down." 

"Oh now, _Ice Man_ ," Irene looked over her shoulder at Mycroft. "Let's not stop the little poppet when he thinks he's on a role." She looked back at Sherlock. "Besides, I'm sure Junior here can speak for himself. In fact, I know that he can. That's right, isn't it? Go on - tell me what you think you worked out, sweetie." She smirked, her porcelain smooth face quirking up on the right side, stretching her lips lopsidedly. 

"Sen...timent..." Sherlock blinked, running his tongue across his lips as he came to a stop before Irene. "Chemical defect fou..." Sherlock screwed his eyes closed and widened them again, inhaling a sharp breath. 

Mycroft took the required two steps to reach his brother and stabilised him with a hand on his back. "Get out," He spat venom into Irene's face. "Your demands will be met, have no fear about that. So leave." Irene's eyebrows rose, just an inch, as if challenging Mycroft to dare to speak to her like that again. "Don't just stand there, staring like you lack an education. Look obliging and run." His voice lowered to an evil slither. 

Irene pursed her lips. She turned, reaching for her purse on the table, and slowly walked toward the double doors with the sounds of her heels clipping off the polished floor mingling with the cracks of the roaring fire. "Catch you later..." 

Mycroft watched Sherlock's face. He kept his hand on Sherlock's back and resting his other onto Sherlock's shoulder closest to him. "It's not ideal, brother mine, but we can do this here. On the floor." In an odd dance of limbs that seemed rehearsed - mostly because it was - and worked like the boys had skillfully worked it out for seamlessness, they lowered together to the floor, Mycroft managing to keep support over Sherlock's slowly ailing body. Mycroft reached to fireside chair opposite the one Sherlock had been sitting in and pulled free the support cushion with one hand, keeping the other on Sherlock's back, albeit in an awkward stance. He guided Sherlock to lie on his back and placed the pillow under his head. "It's alright, you are doing just fine..." 

It was not the first time and it would not be the last, Mycroft hated to consider, that Sherlock would fit in his home. It had happened since their youth and, it seemed, it showed no signs of ever being something Sherlock would be released from. Medication only did so much and despite his new regime being a better fit, there were still breakthrough seizures that caught him and everyone around them off guard. It was expected to happen - Mycroft had spotted the early warning signs and was surprised it hadn't happened sooner, given the stresses he'd seen Sherlock envelope himself in, in recent months. And as the tonic phase began, Mycroft did as he always did - he sat, supported and waited, counting the seconds, as Sherlock's body grew taut and began to contract. 

What would Moriarty think to this? The one key in the lines of Sherlock Mycroft hadn't already given him. What, indeed. 

Still, this was a drop in the ocean for them both. Battles were recapturable, even if it seemed too late, and Mycroft would cease any fight if Sherlock needed him to, whether he asked him for his help or not. It was not the first time he had seen pure evil walk away and just let it happen; but he'd do that if Sherlock needed him to because that's what brothers did, wasn't it? Family is all you have at the end of the day, if you surrendered that for the sake of a fight - no matter how important - surely that made you less of a man than you painted yourself to be?


End file.
